


Now Departing Memory Lane

by StoryCloud



Category: Gregory Horror Show
Genre: Angst, Gen, Memories, Pre-Canon, Sad, last train
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 19:17:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6820771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StoryCloud/pseuds/StoryCloud
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During his time on the train, Gregory encounters something - or rather someone - from his past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now Departing Memory Lane

The hum of the train had become mandatory to his existence, really. Every so often, he’d wake up, and the faraway, yet overhead drone of the train whistle would be strumming to attention. Gregory gave a small start, and his back didn’t appreciate it, no his stiff neck. A quick glance around told his lopsided eyes that he was in the train cart, spectacles on his nose, and book in hand. At times like this, the mind tries to reason however it can.

“Hm.” Had he been reading this? Ah well, best start at the first page. It was the best of times, and the worst…who wrote this?

Then, his left ear caught a sniffle. He glanced sideways, half expecting to find that little sheep mulling around, or maybe the doll child. Most ‘children’ that inhabited this plain of existence cried, unless you counted the one with the axe in his head.

But he found no one.

A chill ran up the old mouse’s spin, and he leant into the walkway, peering up and down the aisle. Aha. A tiny figure, a small as the aforementioned doll, was wandering around, sniffing as quietly as possible.

“It’s a little late for you to be up.” He called. Approaching these little tykes had bad results, every time.

The little figure’s head turned his way.

Let’s just say the old mouse’s insides turned to ice.

A little mouseling, not James, in no way James, was sobbing quietly near the carriage door. His little hands raised to dab away the tears, but it didn’t quite get the job done. “Papa, I’m scared…”

“H…H-uh…?” Gregory didn’t know what to do. He stood up, leaving his book, and shakily pocketed his glasses. A glance at his sleeve told him his pink jacket was gone, leaving his red-black striped sweater. He stared.

Something tugged at his side. “Papa…” A little voice warbled.

This was some kind of dream. Had to be. Gregory swallowed, prayed to whatever hellish powers that be to preserve him, and turned to face a little figure. When he saw his face, he couldn’t help a smile, if a rather terrified one underneath.

“H-hey…” He knelt, and old memories poured in to decide his actions for him. In this plain of existence, you played whatever roll the situation gave you.

It wasn’t so bad, sometimes. A hand moved to smooth back the frazzled little mouse’s hair, “Aw, my sweet, you’ve got yourself all worked up.” He tittered, and lifting the child into his arms. The mouseling curled against his chest immediately. “Don’t fret, Papa’s here.”

He sat down, as the train rumbled along, the boy on his knee, curled safely in his arms. He gave a little hiccup. Gregory relaxed, “Now, tell Pa all about it…”

“I was in a place with dead people stones.” He mumbled unhappily. Dead people…ahah. The cemetery.

“Didn’t Papa say not to play there?” Gregory didn’t say it in any harsh way, but the mouseling squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing another sob. His father quickly held him closer, “No, no…Papa’s not mad. He promises.”

“Promises.” The little mouse reached up to prod his nose. Gregory, in turn, tapped his lightly with his finger. He chortled quietly.

“There’s my smiling boy.” He tucked him into the crook of his arm and lay back. “Let’s get some sleep now, hmm?”

“Uh-huh…” The little mouse sighed, resting his head against his shoulder.

“Goodnight, Fitzwilliam.”

“Nu-Night, Papa.”

Gregory knew for a fact that when he awoke, his pink jacket would have returned, as well as the stiffness in his neck and fingers. And, Fitzwilliam, his son, would be gone. But he kept this moment, real or unreal, memory playing tricks or not.

There weren’t many things to combat the bad ones, after all.


End file.
